Partners in Time #3: Future Shock

By Kristen Sheley

A homework assignment to write an essay about what his life might be like a few decades into his future should be an easy task for Sam Foster. After all, Sam is the inventor of a time machine. With his friend from the past, Meg Clayton, Sam journeys to the year 2040 to investigate his fate firsthand.

It doesn't take long for Sam to find information about his future self. Not only does he become a wealthy businessman, he makes a name for himself in the world of computer technology. It appears Sam is destined for fame and fortune. But the pair also discovers something about "Older Sam" that stuns them: Sam's future self died just five years earlier, at the age of 45.

Will Sam and Meg be able to stop this "future shock" from happening? Or is Sam's destiny sealed for all time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 21, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595854011

Kristen Sheley

Kristen Sheley grew up in the city of Beaverton, Oregon, and has been writing stories since the age of nine. Partners in Time is her first published series. She can be reached electronically at: [e-mail]

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Copyright © 2006 by Kristen Sheley

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-41042-2 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-85401-1 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-41042-1 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-85401-X (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

For Nicole—N-Money or Pyro—who never fails to make me laugh and shares my interest in the random, as well as a certain fandom.

Acknowledgments  

While I pretty much write a book on my own—at all hours of the day and at a variety of locations that include many, many coffee shops—there are many people who help me out behind-the-scenes once a draft is done. These beta readers of mine are selected to provide honest, in-depth feedback to me…a test audience of sorts with any book. Without their feedback, my books would be entirely different creatures.

For Future Shock, this cast of important characters includes: Kimberly Casey, Nicole Dekrell, Jenny King, Erika Murchison, Nicholas Murchison, and Rick Szparkowski. Also part of this process were Kiyo Endecott and Paul G.M. Lambert, both of whom helped with the feedback for multiple drafts. (And mad props to Paul for helping me out with the book’s synopsis and Kiyo for her vast array of hockey knowledge, which was quite necessary in this story!) Finally, Mary Jean Holmes loaned me her ear and a nice, figurative wall on which to bounce ideas throughout the writing journey.

I would also like to thank my old pal Izzy Z Medrano, who provided the awesome cover art—as well as the original logo—this time around. It seems like only yesterday we were in the halls of our high school, joking about such a collaboration someday…. Now he’s making a living being a professional artist. (His gallery of talent can be viewed at http://www.mercilessdesign.com/.) Way cool!

Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future

And time future contained in time past.

—T.S. Eliot

Future shock…the shattering stress and disorientation that we induce in individuals by subjecting them to too much change in too short a time.

—Alvin Toffler

Contents

Acknowledgments

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 1  

SAM

Wednesday, October 26, 2005, was shaping up to be one for the craptacular record books.

It all started early that morning, when I woke up late for school. Instead of my alarm jolting me awake at six-thirty, my sleep was interrupted by my mom knocking on my bedroom door as she was about to leave for work. I just noticed your door was still closed, Sam, she said, poking her head into my room. Were you planning to take the day off?

I looked at the clock, saw that I had about five minutes left before the bus was supposed to come, and jumped out of bed.

Oh, crap!

I paused long enough to throw on the first clothes I could find. Moments later I flew out the door. There was less than a minute to spare before the bus would arrive at the end of the block. But when I reached the edge of the front porch, I slammed to a stop.

Fall was in full swing where I lived in Oregon, and fall in my hometown of O’Hara often meant overcast skies, chilly temps, and lots of precipitation. It would drizzle down, sometimes shower on and off, or even blow vertically in a gross wet mist.

Today it was just lots of plain old rain—steady, consistent, and hard.

I ducked back inside long enough to grab my raincoat before charging out again to sprint to the bus stop at the end of the block. The school bus could be fickle, and I crossed my fingers that this was one of those days where it would come late.

I arrived at the corner just in time to see the rear lights of the bus vanish as it turned onto one of the main intersections. I had missed it.

I swore under my breath, consulted my watch for the time, and realized that I had left the timepiece behind in my room. Turning around, I ran back the way I had just come, hoping to catch my sister before she left the house for school. Drops of rain stung my face as I booked it, the hood of my coat hanging uselessly down my back. My hair was completely soaked by the time I returned to the house, dripping uncomfortably down the back of my neck and into the collar of my shirt. I had bigger problems to worry about, though.

The front door was locked, but Zoey’s old Honda was still parked in the driveway. I fished out my housekeys from my pocket, let myself in, and bellowed, Hey, Zoey!

Silence. The only one to react to my arrival was my dog, Doc, who trotted in from the kitchen to eagerly greet me with a cheerful bark.

Great, I muttered. My seventeen-year-old sister had probably gotten a ride to school from her boyfriend before I had gotten out of bed. Since I was only fifteen, I had no car and nothing more than a learner’s permit. Thus, I had to rely on the bus or the charity of family members when it came to getting to class. I fantasized for a moment about borrowing Zoey’s car, but I realized I’d probably be killed twice over—first by my mom and then my sister—if I tried that one. Skipping the school day entirely was also tempting, but I knew that my mom would probably find out and I’d get in trouble.

Without any other alternatives, I wound up walking the two miles to O’Hara High School that morning. I arrived on campus more than thirty minutes after the first period bell had rung, so I didn’t bother checking in at the office when I arrived. Oversleeping and missing the bus wouldn’t be an acceptable excuse for being late, especially without my mom there to back me up.

I tried to slip into my first period class without being noticed, but the squeak of my damp sneaker soles on the tiles made that impossible. My English teacher, Ms. Dunlap, immediately looked up at me from where she was standing at the front of the room.

You’re late, Sam, she said bluntly, her eyes flicking over my sodden appearance.

Tell me something I don’t know, I thought. I managed to flash her a tightlipped smile and made a beeline for my seat, third desk from the front at the far end of the room. Alex McCoy, my best friend, leaned over as I dropped down in the desk to his left. Did you swim here or something? he whispered.

I was used to Alex’s smartass comments, but this one rankled me after the hellish morning I’d had. What do you think? I muttered out of the corner of my mouth, trying to free my arms from the clinging raincoat sleeves.

Ms. Dunlap picked up whatever subject she had been talking about before I arrived. Your arguments must be well-supported, she said. Don’t turn something in to me unless you’ve done the appropriate research and have solid reasoning to back your arguments. For example, Alex, she added, turning to address my friend, if you are going to tell me that your future will consist of playing for the National Hockey League, you need to give me some clear reasons why this will be so. What will set you apart from all the other aspiring athletes?

My skills, talent, and height, Alex deadpanned, causing the class to snicker.

Ms. Dunlap eyed him, not pleased with the quippy response. She was one of the younger teachers we had, only about ten years older than us. But she was also tough, probably thinking she needed to compensate for the fact she could be mistaken for a senior. "Well, even so, you’d better include some solid evidence for your reasoning that goes beyond that explanation if you hope to earn a good grade on the essay. You cannot simply say you will be rich and famous without showing me step-by-step how that will be accomplished. This includes reporting about the odds that may be stacked against you."

Once Dunlap wandered away from our side of the room, going on about the ills of weak arguments in writing, I leaned over to Alex. What’d I miss?

She’s making us do an essay, Alex explained, his voice pitched low. We gotta look into our future and imagine where we’ll be by our twenty-fifth high school reunion. We need to explain what careers we want to get into, what we hope to pull off, that kinda stuff. But whatever we say, we gotta support with specific details and stats.

When’s it due?

The handwritten draft’s due tomorrow.

Ms. Dunlap seemed to catch wind of our conversation. She focused her attention on Alex and me, eyes narrowed. We both shut up, meeting her gaze with as much innocence as we could. Alex even gave her a little smile and wave. After a moment she resumed talking to the class as a whole, reminding us to not blow off the draft or we would be hating life and our grade come next week. I gave her only half of my attention, my mind captivated by the assignment.

The future in general—and my future in particular—was something I wouldn’t necessary need to hedge a blind guess on. Unlike my classmates I had a way, a method, which could let me see it first hand.

Four months earlier, in July, I had created a working time machine. I had used the device a couple times since the first successful trip. The last time I’d messed around with it was back in late August when I had visited the Middle Ages and, for a few minutes, the distant future. The only other person who was aware of what I had made was a girl my age named Meg Clayton, whom I had met on my first outing through time. I hadn’t seen her since our last trip, since she lived in 1850. That made it a little difficult for casual, daily communication.

Since August, I had been too busy to really think much about traveling through time again. My sophomore year at school was more challenging than I had expected, maybe because I was enrolled in a couple of honors classes. The teachers in general seemed to expect more from us, too, now that we weren’t naive, newbie freshmen. I hadn’t given much thought or done any research towards a new destination to visit, and using a time machine for simple things—like maybe redoing this crappy morning over again to get to school on time—seemed too risky to me. I still had yet to really follow through on my dream of checking out my own future, though. This assignment gave me a perfect excuse to do just that.

The sound of the bell ringing abruptly derailed my train of thought. Ms. Dunlap raised her voice to be heard above the shuffle of all the students cramming things into their backpacks and climbing to their feet. "Remember, your essay draft must be done when you walk in the room tomorrow, or you won’t earn the points for the assignment."

I made a mental note of this as I left class with Alex. He was already focusing on other things the second we stepped out of the room. So what really happened to you this morning? he asked.

My alarm didn’t go off, and I missed the bus, I explained succinctly, heading down the hall to my locker so I could ditch my dripping jacket. Then I had to walk to school ’cause my mom and sister were already gone.

That bites, Alex sympathized. At least you don’t need to deal with the bus this afternoon, since we have the driver’s ed lab.

Yeah, I guess, I said as I reached my locker. I started to twist the dial of my lock through the combination sequence. 37–27–25. What are you gonna write about in the future essay?

Alex leaned against the locker to my left. What do you think? he asked. NHL-er, all the way!

I frowned as I tried to pull the locker latch open. It didn’t move. What ‘evidence’ are you supposed to provide to show Dunlap you can make it? I asked as I spun the dial again through 37–27–25.

Oh, probably specifics like if I’d need education, when I’d get drafted, what the odds are, that sort of crap.

How long do NHL-ers play, anyway?

"That depends. If you’re one of the greats like Gretzky or Messier, and if you can escape any serious injuries during your career, you could maybe get a decade-long career from it. That’d be like winning the lottery, though. If I could get even half of that in the NHL it would be pretty sweet. I’ll probably be retired from playing by the time I’m in my forties—that’s when Dunlap wants us to look back at our lives—but maybe I’ll be coaching then."

I tried to open the locker again, giving it a quick bang with my fist when it didn’t cooperate. What about your size? I asked, quickly cranking the dial through the digits once again. 37–27–25. Isn’t it hard to get anywhere being five-six in that business?

Okay, first of all, I’m five-foot-eight. I don’t know why you keep saying I’m not, unless you think I’m lying.

I stopped twisting my combo lock for a second to look at my friend. He was definitely delusional about that bit. With his wiry build, short brown hair, and blue eyes, he looked like a non-threatening cross between Michael J. Fox and Elijah Wood. I was younger than him by a few months, but he was definitely smaller than me, as much as he might insist otherwise. His size didn’t seem to make much of a difference with his game performance, though. He was pretty fast and fearless on the ice.

"You are lying, I said, looking back to my locker. You’re definitely more than two inches shorter than me. I’m sorry."

Alex let that comment slide—sort of. "Second of all, everyone under six foot in the NHL lies about their real height, so even if I was lying—and I’m not, Sam—it wouldn’t be a big deal. Third of all, there are plenty of players who are short and are still good, like Sergei Samsonov, or Brian Gionta, or Martin St. Louis. And I’m sure I’ll get taller before then, anyway."

I nodded, distracted, as I pulled at the latch again. No go. I whacked the palm of my hand hard against the metal door, venting some of my frustration. Dammit!

Forget about that, Alex said, stepping away from the wall of lockers. The bell’s gonna ring in another minute, and you don’t want to get another tardy today. You’ll get a detention for sure.

I slammed my fist against the unyielding locker door again, as if beating it would make any difference. "This day sucks," I whined.

Maybe you should’ve just cut today, he said. I gotta get to geometry. Later.

I realized I’d better hustle to my second period Spanish II class. After one final glare at my locker, I hurried down the hall, dodging classmates. The bell rang just as I cleared the doorway. My Spanish teacher, Señora Monnier, looked up at me from her place at the front of the room as I skidded across the tiles to my seat.

Cutting it close, now, aren’t we, Sam? she said mildly.

Sorry, I said. My locker’s jammed.

Monnier shook her head and turned her attention to the role sheet as I took my seat. After a moment of checking off the no-shows, Monnier brought the class to attention. As you all know, today is our oral midterm. I trust you’ve all studied.

I turned to look at one of my classmates, Shelia Lopez, in disbelief as Monnier settled down at her desk to call us up one at a time. "The oral midterm is today?" I hissed in a whisper. I could only pray that I had misheard our teacher.

Shelia gave me a look like I was the biggest moron on earth. "She’s only had the date written on the board all week, she murmured. Didn’t you write it down in your planner?"

I tried hard not to panic as Monnier called out for Trish Ackerson to come forward. There were only six students in the class before she’d reach my name, Foster. We can’t use notes, can we? I asked Shelia.

No, she said. It’s all supposed to be up here, remember? She tapped her forehead once.

Alex was right, I thought miserably. I definitely should’ve just cut today!

*   *   *   *

Things got even more grim as the day progressed.

After bombing my Spanish oral midterm, I had my Algebra II class. When the teacher circulated to collect our homework, I realized that I’d left mine back in my room at home and had to take a zero in the gradebook.

I dropped a tray at lunch. This awesome display of klutziness not only splashed food across the tiles and a couple classmates, it caused every head in the cafeteria to turn my way. My classmates started to applaud and laugh at the entertainment I had given them.

My locker continued to refuse any attempts to open, which made me late for another class, my honors World History, and earned a detention during Thursday’s lunch from the teacher.

Fortunately, my fifth period Chemistry class didn’t have any major disasters. I started to breathe easier, hoping that my bad run of luck had concluded—but then came P.E. Ten minutes into the class, I was whacked in the face by a wayward basketball, which sent me to the office for ice to apply to a swiftly swelling lip. If there was any positive to that situation, it was getting to sit on the sidelines for the rest of the period. By the time the final bell of the school day had rung, I wanted nothing more than to go home and lock myself in my room for the rest of the day.

Unfortunately, I still had one more thing to deal with: my driver’s ed lab. My mom was making me take the two day a week class so the cost of car insurance would go down a little when I got my license. On Mondays after school I suffered through three additional hours in a classroom, learning about everything from rules of the road to how to read road maps. Wednesdays brought an hour in a car for the hands on lab.

Most of the time, I didn’t mind the lab part of the course. The hour behind the wheel was usually the most I’d get to drive all week. Mom was still too skittish to let me use her car very much. Whenever she did turn her keys over to me, she’d grip the sides of the seat, her spine as rigid as a pole, and try to operate an invisible brake from the passenger side of the car. She had been just as bad when Zoey had been learning how to drive, according to my sister.

I trudged through the crowded school hallway to the back parking lot where the lab cars would be waiting. Alex caught up with me halfway there, on the way out of his biology class. He and I shared the same car in the lab.

What happened to your mouth, Foster? he asked as soon as he saw me.

I reached up to feel the puffy swelling of my lower lip. Basketball, I said flatly. It’s been a hell of a day. I took a closer look at the world beyond the large glass doors at the end of the hall and groaned. "God, it’s still raining?"

Beats hail.

Whatever. Driving in the rain sucks.

You might want to move away from O’Hara, then.

Our driver’s ed teacher, Mr. Templeton, was waiting for us under the awning outside the doors. A clipboard was clutched in one beefy hand. Good, you’re both on time, he said. Sam, you’ll be going first today.

After stowing our backpacks in the trunk, Alex crawled into the backseat and I got behind the wheel. Templeton took the passenger seat, of course. Once everyone was in, I carefully turned the key in the ignition, started the car, and shifted into reverse. Templeton pointed to my left as I was about to take my foot off the brake.

Windshield wipers, Sam, he said. And headlights. You’ll want to be able to see out your window during bad weather, and for people to see you, too.

I know, I said, testy. I scanned the steering wheel for the controls to the wipers and lights. The layout of everything was a little different than what I was used to seeing in my mom’s car.

There and there, Templeton said, reaching across my lap to point out the two switches.

I twisted the wiper switch a little too hard; soapy liquid sprayed across the already-wet glass. I heard a soft chuckle from Alex as I quickly corrected my mistake.

Now ease your foot off the brake and place it onto the gas, Templeton said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Slowly," he emphasized.

Slowly? Did he really think I’d slam my foot on the accelerator as hard as I could when I was backing up?

Chill, Foster, I told myself, trying to relax my tight grip on the steering wheel. The guy was just trying to do his job, and some of my classmates were dumb enough to require such reminders.

I carefully backed out of the parking space, constantly pausing to check behind me. Good, Mr. Templeton said. Now pull out onto Allen over there, and take a right.

I followed his directions, biting my lower lip as I squinted through the windshield. I mentally cursed the weather again. With all the rain, it would be difficult to stop quickly without going into a skid.

Alex, Templeton said, turning his head towards the backseat. Alex was strapped in right behind me. I need you to keep your eyes on the mirrors. Your job will be to count how frequently Sam looks in them.

All right, Alex said, sounding dubious. Is that really important?

Absolutely. It’s necessary to get into the habit of checking mirrors early on—and checking the blind spots. Many accidents can be prevented with that vigilance.

I checked the rearview mirror again—deliberately this time—and made eye contact with Alex. I raised an eyebrow at him. He rolled his eyes in return, clearly communicating his opinion of our teacher’s speech.

We’re waiting, Sam, Templeton prompted, his voice bringing my attention back to the front of the car.

I shifted the vehicle into drive and eased it forward towards the lot’s exit on Allen Street. No problem. Once there, I stopped and looked to the left, making sure that the way was clear before I turned right. Seeing no cars, I pulled into the street.

Templeton immediately clicked his tongue. You didn’t signal, he said. Remember, every time you’re going to turn, you must signal at least…how many feet before the turn?

I blinked a couple times, my brain being pulled into two directions at once. Not the best thing when I was trying to drive a car in the rain. Uh, twenty feet? I guessed.

No, Templeton said. Alex, do you know the correct answer?

There was a pause from the backseat. I glanced up in the mirror long enough to see Alex pondering the question. A hundred feet? he said, his tone indicating to me that this was a totally random guess.

Correct, Templeton said. He made a mark on the clipboard he held on his lap.

Why so soon? I asked.

It’s the law in the state of Oregon, Templeton said, which didn’t really answer my question. Turn left up here, onto Farmington Lane.

I followed Templeton’s directions, heading out to the rural part of town. After clearing the last of the neighborhoods, the four lane road of Farmington reduced itself down to two. When I reached the part of the road where the westbound lanes merged to one, my attention was focused forward, trying to see through the rain and a layer of hazy fog that was beginning to creep in. I glanced quickly in the rearview mirror and noticed that the back window was all clouded up with condensation. I looked down at the dash for a second, trying to find the defrosting switch.

And that’s when I heard the horn blast.

Startled, I reacted purely on instinct: I gave the wheel a quick twist to the left, thinking that maybe I was drifting towards the gravel shoulder of the road.

Bad move.

I heard a loud bang. The ugly sound immediately caused my skin to break into a cold sweat. Simultaneously, a hard vibration shook the whole car. The vehicle began to slide to the right. Panicked, I hit the brakes right away. The tires locked up into a fast skid across the wet asphalt while the seatbelt grabbed me across the chest and pinned me back in the seat. A sickening sensation twisted my gut as the car hydroplaned off the edge of the road. I pumped my foot on the brake again, hoping that the new terrain would slow our speed. We bumped hard

for a dozen feet across gravel and unpaved dirt before finally coming to a stop.

From start to finish, the entire episode unfolded over a matter of seconds.

Once we had stopped moving, I lifted my hands off the steering wheel and took a deep breath. Oh shit, I murmured, forgetting that there was a teacher just a foot away from me.

Turn the car off, Templeton said in a low, unbelievably level voice. I reached forward and twisted the key, shutting down the idling motor.

Are you boys all right? he asked.

I stared straight ahead through the windshield, afraid to look at the teacher. The world had gone streaky grey beyond the water now pouring across the glass. I noticed that the windshield wipers had stopped mid-wipe. Yes, I whispered, my mouth dry.

I think so, Alex seconded from the back seat, sounding a little rattled.

"Good. Wait here. Don’t move."

I heard his car door open and then slam shut. The cab rattled from the force of the blow. Yeah, our teacher was definitely pissed. I unbuckled my seatbelt and swiveled around to face the back. I looked at Alex first, who had turned his head to watch Templeton’s journey in the downpour. Through the foggy glass, I could vaguely see his shape approach another figure that I guessed to be the driver of the other vehicle.

"I’m so dead," I groaned, letting my forehead fall against the headrest.

Alex turned around to face me. He was uncharacteristically pale. You got that right, he said. Didn’t you see that truck next to us? It totally had the right of way.

My temper stirred at Alex’s words. Yeah, of course I saw the truck. That’s why I decided to let it hit us. What the hell, McCoy?

Alex blinked. Hey, don’t get your panties in a knot, Sam. I call it like I see it, and from what I saw from back here, that truck had the right of way. You were in the lane that was ending, not them. And you weren’t even checking your mirrors or anything when the lanes merged.

"I’m sure you’d do so much better," I said, thickly sarcastic.

Don’t make up excuses for being a dumbass, Alex retorted. "You’re